Mirror
by annonymouss
Summary: "Mirror, mirror on the wall... Tell me, is it my fault?" the mirror, it should've just lied. "...She brings down the blade, to my surprise..." A laconic, dark one-shot. Rated T.


**-Mirror-**

**C-Suzanne Collins**

**Warning: Rated T**

**Summary: **"Mirror, mirror on the wall... Tell me, is it my fault?" the mirror, it should've just lied. "...She brings down the blade, to my surprise..." A laconic, dark one-shot. Rated T.

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><p>...<p>

She looks at her refection: gray eyes, dark hair, petite, olive skin—nothing more than a regular girl from the Seam…

At least, that's what I know; too bad mirrors I reveal what's on the outside, unable to reflect the differences that dwells within.

The young girl's glare frightens me in ways you could've never imagined. The only thing that scares me more is the blade she put down at the edge of the sink.

This girl from the Seam killed thousands of people, most of which were innocent, had families and children…and it all started with a crippled boy who wanted a backpack. It's not her fault that she had wanted revenge. And whatever she wants, she gets. People call her a hero, killing the main reason why—but _why_?

She's a hero because she murdered and took the lives of many people. That's all I show—I mean, _know_.

The Mockingjay looks at me, touching my cover, evaluating herself by using her hand to touch her soft face, not moving an inch away from what I show her. She wants to learn more.

All of a sudden, she whispers, "Mirror, mirror, on the wall… Tell me, is it my fault?"

Honey, be more specific; which fault do you mean? I think you don't need my help on this one, I know you can do it on your own. She stares at me, waiting for an answer.

I do nothing. I just stay still, not wanting to give her an easy way out of this mess. In her hands she picks up a blade, it being sharp and neatly carved. I get uneasy—as if I would break at any moment—though I am surprised it's not an arrow. She looks around, makes sure the door is closed, and sighs. Oh, dear Mockingjay, why would anyone be in the restroom when you're occupying it? Learn, sweetie, learn.

Walking away from me, she sits down on a wooden chair, takes off her jacket and holds the glistening knife in her hands. _What is she going to do?_ I think. _What's wrong with her?_

To my surprise, she twirls it for a second before bringing it to her flesh without hesitating or such word.

I try to turn away from this violent scene, but I can't. The same question runs through my mind, if mirrors even have one.

She traces her skin, then digs the knife in, piercing her flesh and digs it up. Dark red blood oozes on the floor, and for some reason I can almost feel the colored tinge of red on me. She mumbles names as she stops for a second, one that started with either a G or a P. I can't make it out, for she starts creating a letter on her palm and mumbles.

Again, the blade goes down, forming what seems to be "PR" while her flesh is turning pink. On her other arm, there are bite marks, as if she ripped off her flesh on her own, gnawing on it until she felt nothing.

"Katniss open the door!" a worried voice called out.

She ignores.

Twisting the blade with her small shaking hands the girl pulls back in pain, salt water spilling from her eyes and into her fresh wounds, almost making her jump back. She sliced again, as if the knife had its own brain, its own intentions. I wouldn't be surprised if it did. It would probably stick itself into her skull. Or kill her, if that's what she's not trying to do right now.

The knocking continues; the sound of the man's voice is replete with anger and worry, his tone steeped with something I can't lay my glass on.

"Get away from me!" she screams, "I want to be alone!"

"No you don't," he replies, twisting the knob. "You need me. I know you need me! Let me in!"

The girl screams louder, cowering, until her eyes gaze upon me in a furtive manner since her messy hair covered her wet eyes. She sees herself, despite the strands covering her face, what she looks like now, the blood that's starting to dry up, and her crying figure. This is the first time I've ever seen her cry. I am not sure if it's from pain. She is not crying like a baby, not silently either, but her gray eyes look at me menacingly.

The door opens, the man looking down in wide eyes.

All of a sudden, she does the unexpected. She throws the knife at me, shattering my precious body into pieces as soon as the knife and I made contact.

The man tries to comfort her, easing the young girl in his arms in a calming voice that didn't sound like the way he did behind the door.

I am now on the floor, the hero's anger taken upon me because she can't handle what I show her, even though I was innocent. It's what she does best, I suspect.

Maybe I should've shown her a lie.

It hurts.

...

_End_

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><p>Feel free on pointing out any mistakes. I don't bite. Also, I might make this a two-shot, the next one in the point of view of the knife... Please, tell me what you think.<p> 


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